


Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: Jamie and Elliot organise a squad outing to the ballet. Sam is more than intrigued by one of the dancers.
Relationships: Tom Curry/Sam Underhill
Comments: 11
Kudos: 11





	Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgGVa2qNmYY&feature=youtu.be&list=PLcSP18b0KfWOPiu25mz9vILqHvxQpInc_&t=226) video, in which Elliot and Jamie took the England squad to see the Cirque du Soleil during the 2020 Six Nations. It could be set in the 2021 Six Nations, but it doesn't affect the story much either way.

“We always knew this was going to be a hard sell,” Jamie tells the media team’s cameras from a few metres away, “but we’ve had a decent uptake from the boys.”

“The rest of them are at a bar round the corner,” Elliot adds. “No culture, some of these lads.”

Sam smiles to himself, careful not to get in the corner of the shot and force them to redo the take. The two of them have been struggling to come up with new ideas as social secretaries recently, so he doesn’t want to make their job any harder.

Instead, he looks around, soaking up the atmosphere of Covent Garden in the early evening. Bright streetlights illuminate the market stalls and tiny shops around their little group – Maro, Mark, Henry, Jonny, and a couple of others talking quietly – but it’s the majesty of the Royal Opera House’s soaring pillars that catches his attention.

The front of the theatre is lit from within, a soft light glowing over the huge posters hanging from nearby lampposts. _Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake_ , they proclaim. Sam’s never seen the traditional version of the ballet, so it’s going to be interesting. Elliot had given them a rundown of the plot on the drive to the theatre; a lot of death and backstabbing suitors, from what he remembers.

The main draw for Elliot and Jamie had been the all-male swans and, looking at the array of shirtless dancers splashed across the advertising, Sam can’t find himself disagreeing. Even though the swans are all dressed the same, each one has something that makes him stand out – the arch of his back, the hostility in his eyes, or the sheer quantity of muscle on display.

(He’s not as comfortably out as their esteemed social secretaries, but it’s enough for Elliot to give him a salacious wink when he’d opted for the ballet over the bar. Whatever – it’s not like he’s going to pick up one of the dancers, is it?)

Eventually, the media guys decide they’ve recorded enough versions of Jamie and Elliot saying – in the straightest way they could manage – that they’re excited to see some fit men dancing for two hours, shirtless, for the _art_.

They’re still early enough that the foyer is mostly empty, though Jamie had assured them that a couple of thousand people would be attending the sold-out show. Elliot claps his hands together to get their attention, pointing inside. “We’re in three of the Grand Tier boxes, lads, so make your way up there in case we’re separated.”

Then Jamie counts them in, handing each of them a ticket as they go past. In another life, Sam thinks idly, they would have made great teachers. He follows Elliot and their little group up the stairs – huge, sweeping things more suited to a stately home, in his view – to the first floor. Jamie’s backing up the pack – either teachers, or they’re preparing to adopt a lot of kids.

Sam shows his ticket to the lady at the door of the first box and goes through to take his seat. He looks out into the theatre, and his jaw drops.

_Wow._

Plush red velvet stretches across every possible surface – all the seats, the floors, the stage curtains – matched in opulence by the gold trim and soft lighting around the tiers of seating. When he looks up, the ceiling is arched and golden, lights sparkling around the central dome.

It’s beautiful.

“Imagine if Twickenham looked like this,” Jamie says with a smile. It’s just the two of them and Elliot in their box – unintentional segregation that Sam can’t find it in himself to care about.

“Wouldn’t be much good in the rain,” Elliot counters. “Gold bits on the edge of the pitch would be pretty cool, though – or round our lockers.”

He’s pretty sure they’re holding hands between the bulk of their winter coats, but he’s not going to begrudge them this moment. They’re an open secret within the team anyway, and they did organise the trip.

“Nice, huh?” Maro calls over from the next box along. Sam gives him a thumbs up when it becomes clear that neither of the teachers/parents are going to reply, too wrapped up in their own little world.

He takes a few surreptitious photos of the theatre over their heads to send to his sister. Rachel was the only reason he’d seen any ballet at all when they were kids, so she’s going to love this. Sure enough, she texts back a smiley face.

Sam sits down in the second row of chairs in their box, Jamie and Elliot having commandeered the best view. It does mean there’s an empty seat next to him – metaphor for his life, honestly – but it’s fine. He’s never going to turn down more legroom.

After a few more minutes, the lights dim and the orchestra strikes up. Shifting slightly so he can see between the lovebirds’ heads, Sam settles in to watch.

It’s nothing like Rachel’s ballets, all long lines and flawless grace. It’s still a spectacle, but instead it’s jagged and sharp, rough around the edges in a way that’s been meticulously drilled.

A good forty minutes elapse before the first of the promised half-naked swans appear on stage, and he instinctively leans forward with Elliot and Jamie to get a better view. The dancer has close-cropped dark hair and a dramatic black diamond painted across his forehead and down his nose – representing the swan’s beak, he supposes – and the flex of his abs as he leaps across the stage puts Sam’s own to shame.

From then on, it’s like the floodgates have opened. There must be fifteen swans out there, all devastatingly chiselled and ferociously powerful. He’s not quite sure how Jamie and Elliot are taking this, but he’s happy to thirst over the swans from a distance. Jesus Christ, they’re hot, even from thirty metres away.

The lights come up and the curtain falls for the interval, and Sam has to blink himself back to reality. Not for the first time tonight, he thinks _wow_.

“Glad you didn’t go to the bar now?” Elliot asks, grinning. He and Jamie have twisted round in their seats to smirk at him, and Sam flushes.

“It’s, um, very impressive,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Jamie raises his eyebrows, then laughs. “Just kidding, mate. We’ve arranged to go backstage afterwards to meet some of the dancers, so you might want to start preparing yourself now.”

Sam shifts from mere embarrassment to a full-blown panic in a split second. _Meet_ some of the dancers? Talk to them, without making himself look like a creepy idiot? He’s screwed.

“Don’t worry,” Elliot says airily, “me and Jamie are going for the main swan. You can have one of the others – they’re more your age.”

He buries his face in his hands. Forget those two being potential parents, they’re more like a pair of cringy gay uncles.

(Still, loving teasing is better than homophobia, so he’s willing to put up with it.)

Sam hasn’t managed to drag himself out of his hysteria by the time the second half starts, so he resigns himself to a humiliating loss of dignity in front of many very attractive men who – small mercies – he will hopefully never see again.

He’s just about regained his mental equilibrium when four swans come out onto the stage, bristling with the same fiery power as all the others. They’re dressed identically, matching shorts (there must be a word for them, but he doesn’t know it) that look more like damp wool than feathers, but it doesn’t affect the vitality of their dancing.

His gaze snags on one swan in particular. It’s strange how it happens, given how the swans resemble each other with only minute differences. This one might be a fraction broader in the shoulders and a little taller than the other three, but those are the only differences he can identify.

He tracks the swan around the stage, fixated on the way he so perfectly embodies a feisty, aggressive swan with his movement. Then the swan – _his_ swan – is lifting one of the others off the ground, and Sam’s mouth goes dry. He knows first-hand the strength that takes, and the swan doesn’t even seem to register the effort, dancing on with the others.

All too soon, his swan is leaving the stage and the main swan is back, performing a duet with the prince. Maybe it’s more impressive than what Sam’s swan had been doing, but he wants to see that specific dancer again. Something about the slope of his shoulders, the defiant jut of his jaw – he can’t pin down what it is about him. He’s magnetic.

The swan’s back on for a few more scenes, to Sam’s satisfaction. But then the curtain falls for the final time, and he’s bereft. No more swan for him – he’ll have to work out who the dancer is from the programme, stalk his Instagram to fulfil his sudden craving for those dark eyes.

But then-!

Sam’s heart leaps as the cast run onto the stage, taking in the audience’s applause. Of course his swan would be back to accept the adulation, as he deserves. The backup swans come out almost at the end, before the swan and the prince, and Sam stares at his swan, trying to memorise his face.

The swan is smiling now, all the earlier hostility and grit gone, and Sam recognises the familiar flush of success in the redness of his cheeks and the heaving of his chest. It’s a good look on him, in spite of the woolly shorts.

A few more blessed seconds in his presence, and then the dancers are leaving once more. He claps a few more times, to make sure his swan knows that he’s appreciated, then lets his hands fall. If he can’t find him online for some more discreet ogling, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“Like it?” Jamie asks, having stood up and put his coat on while Sam was still in a swan-induced daze.

“Yeah,” he says, not capable of more. His swan, only a matter of metres away, and yet so far…

Elliot smirks, loops his arm around his boyfriend’s waist. “If I hadn’t known already, I would’ve said this was your gay awakening, mate. Go on, which one was it?”

“One of the swans,” Sam murmurs. “He was taller than the rest of them, and he had a really nice smile.”

Jamie snorts. “Christ. I hope the lads next door haven’t had the same experience, or we’ll have to call in backup to drag you all to the coach later.”

Sam doesn’t deign to respond. He’s too busy holding the image of his swan in his head, that last look out at the audience before he followed the rest of the flock offstage.

Immersed in his memories, he’s manhandled out into the corridor with the rest of the boys, Elliot and Jamie firmly back in teacher mode. “If you need the toilet, go now,” Elliot’s saying, “and then we’ll head down to meet the dancers.” Sam’s tempted to make a break for the loos and escape out the window, but he can feel Jamie’s piercing gaze on the back of his head like a sniper and he stands his ground.

Henry and a few other split off from the main group to use the facilities, and Sam has a few minutes to flick through the programme. Why there have to be so many understudies and replacements, he doesn’t know – how do you get injured from dancing? – and it frustrates his search for the swan.

He’s skimmed about half of the black and white headshots by the time the boys return, but to no avail. Annoyed, he tucks the programme into his coat pocket and resorts to using traditional methods to discover his swan’s name. He’s certain that he’ll know who it is as soon as he sees him, despite how similar the dancers looked on stage.

“Alright, lads,” Jamie says. The corridors are emptying now, so he doesn’t have to raise his voice as much. “Behave yourselves in there – no gay jokes, but that’s a given.” He pauses to wink at Sam. “Underhill’s going after one of the swans, so let him have his moment if you see him talking to one of them.”

Forget making a break for it through the toilets, Sam wants the ground to swallow him up. _Definitely_ unhelpful gay uncles.

Nevertheless, he manages to stay with the group all the way down the stairs and past the backstage sign. It’s only at the last second, seeing the open door into the dressing room and hearing the chatter spilling out of it, that he balks.

“None of that,” Maro says in his ear, giving him a friendly shove in the back. “Go get your man.”

A quick glance behind confirms that he’s surrounded by most of the England pack, so he resigns himself to his fate. It’s only a swan – plenty more fish (birds?) in the sea if this goes wrong.

The swans are sat in front of rows of mirrors, wiping off their stage makeup and swapping the woolly shorts for more normal clothes. Sam scans the room frantically. It doesn’t help that he’s mostly staring at the back of their heads, but he’s in very real danger of losing his swan to the clutches of one of the other lads if he doesn’t get a move on.

Most of the guys are gathered around the main swan – _the_ swan – and the prince, at the far end of the room, and Sam lets himself look through the backup swans again, this time more slowly. A few rows away from him, one seat in, sits a familiar set of sloping shoulders. He’s sure that this is his dancer.

In the harsh light of the dressing room and reality, Sam’s not confident that his plan is going to work out.

Taking a deep breath and choosing his line, he sets off, weaving between chairs and swans and costume racks. Further into the room, the stench of sweat is even more apparent. It won’t deter him, though.

Then he’s there, half a metre away from his swan. “Hi,” he says awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The swan twists in his seat, makeup remover in one hand. “Oh, hi,” he says, half-smiling. “You’re one of the rugby players.”

“Yeah.” English was never his best subject at school, and this just proves it. “I’m Sam.”

“Tom,” the swan offers in return, and Sam smiles. _Tom_. “I’d have thought you would have been over with Alex and Matty, like the rest of your lot.”

Sam shrugs, excitement singing through his veins. His swan is called Tom, and they’re talking. “Nah. I saw you in the – the dance where there were only four of you on stage – and it was really good, so I wanted to come and congratulate you on it.”

“The pas du quatre?” Tom asks. He puts the wipe down and flicks his hands out at the small of his back. “The one where we were running around like this?”

“That’s the one,” Sam answers, nodding. It’s only been thirty seconds, but he’s positive that they’re getting on well. “The lifts, especially – really good.”

Tom looks him up and down. “I suppose you’d know a lot about that. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re Underhill, right? You play for Bath.”

Sam goes hot all over, and he can’t blame it on the glare of the overhead lights. If his swan, Tom, has noticed him before too… He nods, not trusting his words.

“My brother lives there, and he’s a big rugby fan. Season ticket and everything. You’re his favourite, if twenty-two-year-old men can have favourites.”

It’s more than a little disappointing that it’s Tom’s brother rather than Tom himself who likes his rugby, but it’s a start. “I could sign something for you – for him, sorry, if you’d like.” If any of the lads are watching this shambles, he’s going to be chirped into next week.

Tom grins brightly despite the tiredness in his eyes. “That would be perfect. Birthday present sorted, and it’s only February.”

Sam looks around for something to write on. He has his ticket in his pocket, but he’d rather keep that for himself.

“Have you got your ticket with you?” Tom asks, holding up a pen. “It’s eyeliner, but it’ll do.”

Reluctantly, he pulls his ticket out and passes it to Tom. Their hands brush for a fraction of a second, sending a shudder through Sam’s body. God, this guy is hot. Then Tom’s scribbling something on his ticket and handing it back. It’s not quite how autographs work, in Sam’s experience, unless Tom’s written a message to his brother-

He reads the uneven scrawl on the ticket and can’t stop a grin forming. Tom’s written his phone number on it, instantly tripling its value from Sam’s perspective.

“So we can work out what you’re going to sign later,” Tom explains, though there’s a glint of an ulterior motive in his shining eyes.

“Sounds good to me,” Sam says, so fizzy with excitement he might take off. “And – just for the record, you make those sheep shorts look incredible.”

Tom plucks a pair off the rack behind him, offering the material to Sam to stroke. “Thanks. I can’t see much through all the layers you’ve got on-” Sam suddenly feels overdressed in comparison to Tom, who’s sitting there in leggings and not much else- “but I’m sure you rock a rugby shirt.”

Sam sees his teammates filing out of the room in his peripheral vision. “Where do you live?” he asks, no longer caring about subtlety.

“Just round the corner from here,” Tom says, hooking the shorts back onto the rail. “I guess you’re in Bath most of the time?” Sam nods. “Well, look. Text me and we’ll figure something out, okay?”

“Alright,” Sam agrees, and then Tom’s reaching out and joining their hands.

“Talk soon, Sammy,” he says seriously – too serious, really, for a man with a smudged black diamond still covering half his face.

“Absolutely,” Sam promises, relief bubbling up in his chest. He does have to go then, and leaves Tom – _his swan_ – with one last squeeze of his hand and a lingering look.

Elliot and Jamie are waiting by the door, everyone else already outside. “Mission successful?” Jamie asks, stretching to scrub at his hair.

Sam shows them the ticket he has clasped in his hand. He won’t be letting go of that for a while. “Just a bit, yeah.”

Leaning closer to read the writing, Elliot groans. “Only you could have gone to the ballet and left with a dancer’s number, Sammy. Bloody hell.”

 _Gay uncles_ , Sam thinks to himself, then turns for one final glimpse of Tom. He’s looking back to Sam’s gratification, and smiling. Tom blows him a kiss, and he knows his teammates saw it from the retching noises that erupt from behind him.

“You’ve known the guy for three minutes,” Jamie complains, herding him out the door before he can reciprocate. “If we’d left you any longer, you’d probably be engaged.”

Sam smiles, all that tension suddenly released, insulated against the cold winter wind that hits them as they step outside by the warmth of Tom’s hand, and his kiss. It’s early days (or early minutes, more like), but he can’t see himself minding that much at all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want a visual of the swans, take a look at [this photo](http://sadlerswells-assets.s3.amazonaws.com/assets/Image/swanLake_main.jpg), and [this article](https://www.nytimes.com/2020/01/30/arts/dance/matthew-bourne-swan-lake.html) talks about the place of this adaptation in ballet. (Yes, I did far too much research for a fic of this length...)
> 
> I hope you all have a good week, and watch out for the second Christmas fic of the week on Wednesday.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


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